Dashboard Jealousy
by Boggy
Summary: People were not glove compartments.


Author's Notes: As I reviewed my fanfiction pieces, it occurred to me—I don't have **any** Seiji/Nasuti stories. Well, I have **one**, but it's in desperate need of revisions. It's strange—the Seiji/Nasuti nut that I am, and I rarely write fanfiction "with" the two together; or rather, I rarely write fanfiction "about" the two together. I'm always waiting for another author to write something romantic, yet I never stop to ask myself what **I** think is romantic, or how **I **think they should interact.

That ends now.

I threw this story together over the span of three or four days, so it's not as long as my other pieces. Still, it's over 1000 words in length, so the average Seiji/Nasuti fan should have their fill. I've considered chronicling a saga of Seiji/Nasuti stories (this being the first of the series), though I haven't made up my mind. We'll just have to wait and see.

As always, if you have questions or concerns, please mail me and I'll respond a.s.a.p.

Disclaimer: Ronin Warriors/Yoroiden Samurai Troopers is © to Sunrise, Nagoya TV, and Sony Music Entertainment.

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**Dashboard Jealousy  
**By Boggy

Their destination was unknown at the time, though looking back, Nasuti preferred it that way. The spontaneity of the moment, the unpredictability of their actions, the treachery of freedom and the anxiety of choice—were they feelings, or simply possibilities spawned from latent attraction and appetent curiosity? Was it tangible, or the musings of a fantasy-indulged woman heightened by beauty, rebellion, and—dare she say—scandal? Or perhaps it was the fear of loneliness, or the comfort of sensuality and companionship?

She glanced at the driver, whose arm leaned, effortlessly it seemed, against the windowsill, his reflection still and pale against the blackened backdrop of the night. His nails were long, manicured to perfection, and she wondered, absently, if he noticed her hands, or better yet, the earrings she wore, or even the curves of her hair; for that matter, did he notice anything?

He'd told her once, in the kitchen, that she "smelled of winter," a scent vaguely resembling the lotion she kept in her purse. It "reminded him of her"—a winter that "smelled of snow and candlelight, and the crisp tang of the evening breeze." His remark was a statement of fact, doubled as an unintentional compliment, though she'd found his outburst misplaced, as though he'd meant to say one thing, and ended up saying something else entirely. All she could think in response was, "The nights are cooler now," coupled with a strong desire to wrap herself in bed sheets—and bring him with her.

The notion, though restrained, was not altogether lost, and it struck at her in the seclusion of their surroundings, her senses sharpened by the savagery of the dark. She concentrated on his hands, on the loose jacket that hugged his arms, and his ever-present expression of solemnity that screamed a thousand mysteries.

How she loved the silence.

"A man called earlier today. He left a message on the answering machine."

It was an off-handed remark, though she felt a tinge of jealousy, or perhaps spite, in his voice.

"I erased that message…" Nasuti's voice faded a little.

"I was home when he called."

Words like "home," "family," and "sister" were important to Seiji. Most people used them without thinking, but to Seiji, those words were precious, much like the bond between parent and child. Nasuti felt connected, apart of him somehow, when he referred to the mansion as "home." He seemed… less distant, closer, when the mansion—and the people living there—were part of his life.

"It wasn't important. A social call. Nothing more." Nasuti wished she felt as firm as she sounded.

"He invited you to dinner."

"Dinner party," she corrected. "A formality at work. He needed a date, and assumed I would go." She rubbed her hands before continuing. "I'm sure he found someone else."

Seiji's eyes piqued with curiosity, and perhaps, something else. "Did you return his call?"

Nasuti mentally snorted. He was nosy when he wanted to be.

"Why? Does it bother you?"

"To simply ignore the fact is inconsiderate."

Nasuti snorted, aloud this time. "I don't owe him anything. Besides, if you knew he called, why ask me to come with you? I believe your words were 'Let's go driving.'"

Seiji turned his eyes back to the windowsill. "I assumed you would handle the situation tactfully."

Nasuti slumped her shoulders against the seat. "Men are full of assumptions tonight."

Her comment was followed by silence. Seiji resumed his focusless stargazing, and Nasuti took a peculiar interest in the glove compartment. She examined its position on the dashboard, the ugliness of its quadrilateral shape, and the bumpiness of its vinyl surface. She thought about its contents, though stopped when she realized how trivial it was. The purpose of a glove compartment was to store things, though what it stored and why seemed tedious, insignificant. No one cared about the contents of a glove compartment unless you needed something inside. Otherwise, it was simply there—a decoration, an ornament, a tool to be used at one's convenience.

People were not glove compartments.

"You never answered my question."

"Hmm?" Seiji raised an eyebrow, bored. "Which question is that?"

"Does it bother you… that a man called me?"

Seiji took a moment to think before flicking his hair to the side, and adjusting his body to a more comfortable position. He turned, facing her for the first time that night, his face expressionless, but sincere.

"Are you bothered by my jealousy?"

Nasuti was thrown off-guard by his remark. She hated when he exchanged one question for another; it felt like he was cheating.

She turned her body to face his own, her eyes challenging his composure, and their faces mere inches apart. She blinked once, tracing his chest with an imaginary line, forcing herself to remember his age while trying to forget how old she was.

"...No. I like jealousy and possessiveness. I like… belonging to someone, submitting to someone; I like being someone's possession. I want to hang off someone's arm, and wear pretty clothes, and outdo other girls. …I want those things, but I want them with the right man." She paused. "…That's why I didn't go tonight. …That's why I never returned his call."

Having said her piece, and having taken her confessions with care, Seiji's eyes wandered low, but steady, until they rested at her chest and eventually her legs. It was the first time he'd looked at her—to "her" knowledge anyway—with desire, or at least a general wanting and accepting of "touch." And while she was older, Nasuti had always relied on Seiji for discipline and self-control. As they were now, neither of them were in any position to cater the other on the practices of virtue.

"I don't want him, or any other man, touching you." His voice dripped with territorialism.

Nasuti laughed. "Not even a pat on the shoulder?"

Seiji brushed his fingers against her neck, before straightening himself in the driver's seat. He ran a hand through his hair, tossed his seatbelt aside, and turned the ignition. Nasuti buckled in her seat.

"…What? We're leaving?"

Seiji nodded. "Your co-worker might call again. This time, I want to answer the phone."


End file.
